


In a Heartbeat

by horrorgremlin (catstuff)



Series: Once Bitten [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Altered Mental States, Bloodplay, Bondage, D/s, Dysphoria in sexual context, F/M, Interrupted orgasm, Kidnapping, Oral Sex, Vampires, dubcon, noncon, sph, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23655028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catstuff/pseuds/horrorgremlin
Summary: “You know the saying, it’s not the size of the boat…” She laughs. She doesn’t need to finish the line; they both know she’s the ocean.
Series: Once Bitten [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702981
Kudos: 2





	In a Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: noncon, dubcon, coercion, explicit sex, altered mental states, kidnapping, light bondage, D/s tone, bloodplay, oral sex, genital shaming, and dysphoria in a sexual context.

“There he is,” a familiar voice purrs.

Grayson feels nothing but bleary as he squints his eyes open and struggles to focus. He’s lying on his back, in a room with comfortably low lighting dispersed from a few different shaded lamps. The last thing he remembers is returning to the dingy hallway behind the bar, and the light-headed cold collapse at the end of the job that’s becoming an uncomfortably familiar relief. He doesn’t remember walking home, and he definitely doesn’t feel like he’s eaten; he should still be groggy with cold stone at his back, not groggy in a quaint, messy room, in… someone’s bed?

“Grayson. Come on, stay with me here.” A warm hand roughly pats his cheek.

Everything snaps into focus at once.

“What are you doing here?” he growls, voice catching in his parched throat.

“I live here,” Mariah preens, amused as she always seems to be when he opens his mouth these days. “You didn’t look so hot when I came back for your goods. Seemed like you could use a nicer place to sleep it off.”

Grayson tries to protest that this is obviously far beyond what anyone would consider professional behavior, but his throat is so dry. He gropes blearily for water, for something, and finds a cool glass pressed into his hand. He takes it, drinks, and hands back the empty glass without saying thank you. With that basic need relieved, he starts taking in his environment. He’s propped up at the head of the bed. Mariah is sitting on the bed’s edge, near the foot. The only way out of the room is directly past her.

Dehydration is one thing, but he’s still down a couple liters of blood, and the one thing he’s acutely aware of, besides Mariah’s position between himself and the exit, is that his physical strength and especially his cognitive abilities are both well below his baseline.

“What do you _want_?” he groans, rubbing his eyes and trying to fix his hair by feel.

She slides closer to him; he reflexively pulls his feet in toward his body, but she just takes the extra space he’s given her. She puts a hand on his knee and runs her fingers slowly down his shin, then back up and just far enough above the knee to make Grayson tense defensively.

“Do I always have to want something?” She has the audacity to sound almost hurt.

“You always do,” he answers honestly. “What is it this time?”

Her dark eyes slide up to meet his. Her fingers are still dragging along the rough fabric of his jeans, and he realizes something about the touch is more careful than Mariah usually bothers to be, almost tentative, which is not like her at all.

“I think you know,” she says. “And I think you still do too.” She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. “But I won’t stop you if you want to leave.”

It takes Grayson a second, but in case the intensity of her gaze isn’t clear enough, Mariah adds a sharp squeeze on his knee for emphasis. She holds eye contact a moment longer, then, with visible effort, drops both her eyes and her hand.

This is new. In a few ways.

Of course, true to form, she just had to save her curveball for when she’s got him cornered and exsanguinated. Years of long-buried desires are waking up, Grayson’s head is swimming, and the part he’s stuck on is the oddity of her letting him go without some sort of payment or humiliation. Against the judgment of his long honed defenses, he can’t help thinking that she seems sincere. He thinks she might actually just stay put and let him walk out of there.

He notices that in spite of her stoic expression, her cheeks are pink enough that he can see the difference in the dim light. She – wait, _what_ did she say she wants?

He swallows and looks at the open door as if it’s the last remaining lifeboat on a wrecked ship, about to pull away. Then he looks back at Mariah, just as she’s looking back up at him, and he sees something in her face that he’s never seen there before: not the possessive want of control, but actual, vulnerable desire. His old attraction blazes back to life stronger than ever, and Mariah responds to the change in his expression by lunging at him.

Their mouths crash together as she knocks him back against the headboard, sloppy and sharp, and Grayson grabs her by the hips as her tongue invades his mouth just as roughly. They both snarl, wrestling for control, and he gets a fist in her hair and is about to throw her down on the other side of the bed when she bites his lip hard enough that he yelps in surprise. His anger flares up, but his shock gives her time to get a solid hand around his wrist, sharp nails against straining tendons. He growls, unwilling to relinquish his grip.

Frozen mid-motion, she catches his eyes and digs her nails into his skin, slowly, so he can’t tell if she’s broken it yet or if it just feels like she has. Her severe expression makes him panic – old instincts – but her grip and the pain hold him steady through it and the extra adrenaline starts to taper off. He realizes she’s not going to force anything; she’s asking him for something.

And he remembers how very, very badly he wants it.

He lets go of her hair and in a whirlwind of motion she has his arm against the headboard and her teeth are scraping against his throat, making him tremble. He lets himself whimper and presses his hips up against her straddling him, then barely has time to regret it before her other hand is skimming past his stomach and she’s palming his groin through his pants.

He can feel her theatrical pout against his neck. “Am I doing something wrong? I thought you liked me.” Her tone is honey sweet and lemon sour.

“If I’d known you were going to kidnap and seduce me,” Grayson grunts, trying not to sound embarrassed, “Maybe I would have worn the hard one.”

Now he can feel her grinning, and he can tell the burning, slimy trail she licks up his jaw and around his ear is a sign she’s pleased that he’s playing her game. She starts moving against him and he can feel whatever’s left of his soul leave his body. There’s no way to keep himself from grinding back, his movements betraying his protests as the instinct to fight back easily redirects itself. Mariah drops his wrist and he lets his half-asleep arm fall limply. Then he realizes she’s trying to take his shirt off and sits bolt upright.

“Whoa, hey, relax,” Mariah backtracks, holding her hands up where Grayson can see them. “I know –”

“You can’t –”

“I know. Or at least I figured. Grayson, I’m not an idiot. I know how to use the internet.”

He gives her the most skeptical look he’s capable of producing in his current state.

“Just the shirt?” She looks weirdly hopeful, but she’s keeping her hands to herself. And, as he struggles to gather his wits enough to assess her intentions and actual level of understanding, he mostly just keeps wishing that she would start touching him again.

As if in a trance, he grasps the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, casting it aside. He feels immediately and intensely naked with nothing to cover his olive-toned binder, currently a couple shades darker than his anemic skin. But when he dares to meet her eyes again, Mariah looks uncomplicatedly pleased. She places a careful hand on his sternum and he lets her press him back down against the mattress. Her dress comes off next, in one easy motion that he almost envies, then she lays her body back on top of his.

It’s been too long since someone held or touched him with his shirt off, and Mariah’s skin is so soft and hot that he immediately lets out a small sound and reaches to pull her closer. With an impish little smile, she shakes her head, takes both his wrists and lays them on the pillows over his head. He doesn’t care, though, because her mouth is burning hot over his carotid. He just cranes his head back, wanting nothing but for her to take more.

Something square and solid closes around one of his wrists, then the other. Grayson pulls and finds his range of motion severely limited. In a hazy confusion, he twists to look behind him. She’s put some sort of stiff cuffs on him, and they seem to be anchored to the headboard. They must have been placed there in advance. She is absolutely shameless.

He looks back up and his breath stops for a moment at the sight of Mariah still casually straddling his hips, nude but for a lacy black bra and matching underpants, her skin glowing in the warm low light. Her severe haircut complements her angular face and hides nothing of her long neck, strong shoulders, and plush curves. Grayson can hardly stand how beautiful she is. He’s not sure he’s ever wanted her more than in this moment.

Watching his face, she leisurely fiddles with the button on his pants, then unzips the fly so slowly Grayson swears he can hear every individual tooth in the zipper click. The tension is visible in his whole body, and she’s having an openly delightful time toying with her captive prey.

“Come _on_ ,” he whines.

“It’s taken us a decade, Grayson, what’s a few more minutes?” Her fingertips are studying the waistband of his underwear.

“Fucking _bitch_ ,” he moans, before he can stop himself. But she still just looks amused.

“You knew that when you stayed.”

He has no retort to that, so he keeps moaning wordlessly.

“Ask nicely.”

“Please,” Grayson said, without hesitation.

She slips her fingers under his waistband, but doesn’t pull down. “Please what?”

“What – Mariah, come on.” He jerks uselessly against the restraints and her weight on top of him. “Take them off. P-please,” he stutters, “take them off.” 

Just like that, his pants are down and discarded. He’s breathing fast from exhilaration and trepidation. With a gesture and a look, she checks that it’s okay to remove the rest, and he nods hard before he can second-guess it. Their clothes are all over the bed and floor, but Mariah takes a moment to fold his underwear around his packer and set it on the nightstand. By the time she settles back in and lays her hands on his bare thighs, Grayson is close to tears from wanting.

Now that she’s got him both restrained and stripped down, Mariah is clearly in no rush at all. The slow drag of her fingers across his skin is heavy with years of buildup, and something in her face makes him realize suddenly that she’s been waiting for this, in one way or another, for maybe as long as he’s been dreaming of it.

He feels dizzy from head to toe. “Please?” he asks, plaintive and helpless as her fingers burn circles up and down his inner thighs and lower abdomen, skipping over his vulva on each pass. “Please? Please.” He’s shaking harder and harder, trying to buck against her hand, but she’s still pinning his legs down. “Mariah.”

Her hand stills, and Grayson looks up to find her leaning in, eyes fixated between his legs. His stomach turns in mortification. She blows softly and it makes him twitch.

“Hmmm.” With no warning or delicacy, she uses her fingers to push his little homegrown dick one way then the other, examining it and testing its movement. “This is from testosterone, right?” He burns with shame as his body keeps pressing upwards, trying to get more; he has no idea what she’s thinking as she scrutinizes his pathetically swollen anatomy, nor when she looks back up, her eyes unreadable as they meet his.

“You know,” she says mildly, “you’re not looking so great.”

Grayson mangles his attempt to verbalize a question as Mariah shifts her weight, laying the length of her body on top of his.  
“Come here,” Mariah says, gently cupping the nape of his neck. Then her hand fists hard in his hair as she presses her other forearm against his lips. “Drink.”

He whines, muffled into her arm, which keeps pushing insistently at his face. On instinct he tries to shove it away, forgetting that his hands are currently inaccessible to him. Slowly and subtly, her hips slide against his, staggering their thighs to press closer until the fabric of her underwear rubs directly against him. Relenting, he stops gritting his teeth and sinks them into her arm. As he drinks, her grip slackens until she’s stroking his hair gently off his sweaty forehead.

The high crashes into him like it never has before. He starts drinking with more vigor, growling, and she lets him for another few grandiosely perfect moments before hooking her fingertips into the hinge of his jaw, prying it open like a dog’s, and taking away his bone. He moans loudly, shame no longer a hindrance. Mariah strokes his hair back again and gives his head an affectionate scratch.

“Good boy,” she says sweetly.

“Fuck you,” Grayson responds immediately. He’s not _that_ far gone.

Mariah tut-tuts, slides down his body, and flicks one of his nipples hard through his binder with troubling accuracy.

“Be _good_ ,” she says, emphasizing with an equally well-aimed hit to the other one, “and I literally will, right now.”

It takes a great effort of will, but he shuts up. She beams at him and he feels a gross sort of pride.

“That’s better,” she says. He clenches his jaw and tries to glare and plead at the same time. Mariah takes her sweet time nipping her way down the trail of hair on Grayson’s stomach, and he whimpers in instinctive panic when her breath falls cold on his burning erection after an especially hard bite just above it. She hovers, clearly amused by his fear; she even nudges it gently with the side of one of her canines, as he looks on in need and terror, unable to break her demanding stare.

“Just here?” she asks, fingers poised over him. “Not,” she gestures lower as a question.

“What? Yeah. No. Just – please, Mariah, please –”

He almost cries in relief when she finally decides it’s enough for now and sucks his whole little cock into her mouth.

She’s careful at first, but investigative, sucking gently as she strokes and prods with her tongue. Grayson loses the ability to focus and lets his eyes close, while she keeps hers trained on his reactions, testing his sensitivity while keeping a firm grip on his hips, her hands pressing roughly against his hip bones. With a little work, she figures out the combination of motion and speed that _does_ make him cry. His body stops fighting the sensation and relaxes, flushed and trembling, his jaw hanging open, self-consciousness finally forgotten in a way that Mariah has never seen from him before. She hums in satisfaction.

All at once his breathy crying lengthens into escalating throaty moans, she feels all the muscles in his legs and abdomen tense around her, and she has just enough time to think _aww, already?_ before he’s _definitely_ coming, practically howling as the gathered tension starts to erupt through his body.

Abruptly, Mariah removes her mouth from his swollen dick and latches it straight onto his femoral artery. He screams, not that he wasn’t already screaming, and tries to shake her off, but her teeth are sunk in deep. She drags a few adrenaline-charged mouthfuls out of him, until he accepts what’s happening and, again, stops fighting, his screams turning to breathy, fearful whimpers.

Then she detaches, puts her arms over his legs, digs her nails into his ribs, and resumes what she interrupted. Grayson is beyond overstimulation, limp and sobbing through half-hearted attempts to pull away as she sucks and laps at him luxuriously. When she finally realizes he’s attempting, voiceless and breathless, to whisper “stop,” she does.

He doesn’t stop crying, he just does it with less energy, as if there’s nothing left in him even for that. Mariah licks up the blood smeared around where she bit his thigh, lifting it up to get where some trickled down to the underside. A bit has gotten on the sheets, too, which makes her smile. She takes a satisfied breath and sits back to admire the results of her work.

Grayson, starting to come back to himself, is taking slow, steady breaths in an effort to calm his continued trembling. His skin tone has caught back up to the shade of his binder, the olive fabric accentuating the deep flush in his chest as it rises and falls. Mariah climbs over him, sits down, and reaches to fiddle with something, freeing his hands to fall useless by his sides.

She strokes back his hair affectionately, kisses his sweaty forehead, and says, “You’ve got a cute little dick there, you know that?”  
He groans grumpily.

“You know the saying, it’s not the size of the boat…” She laughs. She doesn’t need to finish the line; they both know she’s the ocean.

“It is cute, though,” she affirms coyly. He doesn’t respond, so she nudges him and adds, raising her voice theatrically, “Say thank you.”

“You’re terrible,” Grayson murmurs, and promptly falls asleep.


End file.
